


Sick Time

by poisontaster



Series: Heart 'Verse [16]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Future Fic, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Permanent Injury, Porn with Feelings, Semi-Public Sex, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-02
Updated: 2006-08-02
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:30:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5747902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Year 9.  After the accident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadow_walker3](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=shadow_walker3).



> So shadow_walker3 ~~badgered~~ convinced me that I needed to be writing her some fic. And since she lets me bounce story ideas off her and bore her senseless, I caved agreed. She asked for scruffy, hurt Dean and smut. Preferably of the Sam/Dean variety. So this is Heart 'verse, year nine, right after Sam and Dean get hurt. Shadow, honey, I hope you like this and it fits the bill.

Dean watches the door close behind the nurse and then looks at Sam expectantly. "Okay dude, we've got about twenty minutes."

"Twenty minutes for what?" Sam's tired and sort of dreamy from his own drug regimen; he was seriously thinking about just putting his head down and falling asleep at Dean's bedside.

"To suck my dick," Dean says. Like it's perfectly obvious.

"Dean, you—" Sam gestures at him, scruffy and exhausted looking, almost as pale as his thin hospital gown.

"Yeah, me. I didn't _die_ , Sam, and it's been almost a month. C'mon. I wanna make sure all the equipment works." Dean makes an urgent flappy gesture. "They're going to be back to take my vitals again soon. C'mon."

And what does it say about Sam that he's salivating, just a little bit, at the thought of having Dean on his tongue, in his mouth again? It's only been a month for Dean, but it's been even longer for Sam who sat with him through his month long coma. For a long time both of them were too sick and hurt to care much, but Sam's woken the last couple weeks with morning wood like you wouldn't believe and he's been dreaming about Dean doing things that aren't even anatomically _possible_. So…yeah. A little cocksucking sounds like a pretty damn good plan.

That doesn't mean he's going down without a fight, though. As he flips the blanket back from Dean's thighs—are they thinner? They look thinner—he rolls his eyes, scowls and grumbles, "Even half dead you're a fucking slut, Dean."

"Only for you, baby." Dean grins, almost bouncing in place. His fingers thread lightly through Sam's hair, caressing, scraping blunt over Sam's scalp and sending shivers down his spine. Lately, it's felt like all he's wanted is the touch of Dean's hand, Dean's warm, living skin, on his.

"Careful of your leg," Sam murmurs, his breath brushing warm over Dean's cock, which is already rising to meet him, flushing darkening shades of pink.

"Yeah."

Sam smoothes the flat of his tongue from the dark and waiting slit down to the curving edge of the ridge and Dean lets out a barely stifled moan. "Dean," Sam says seriously, dragging his bottom lip slowly over that resilient edge, "I know discretion's not your middle name and all, but _shut the fuck up,_ okay? I don't want to be banned from the hospital for lewd acts."

"I… Yeah. Yeah, okay." Dean sounds breathless and he's sitting off center, favoring his uninjured hip and leg. Sam thinks about stopping. Dean's not well enough for this. He's really not. "You just…startled me. Shit, Sammy, do that again."

Sam meets Dean's eyes, Dean's cock trembling lightly in his fingers. Dean's eyes are dark and his pupils are engorged, slightly wild. There's something there, some Deanish and obscure message Sam can't quite decipher beyond the obvious: _don't stop_. Sam's heart gives a little squeezing flop in his chest, even as he lowers his lips to part over the crown of Dean's dick.

Dean's breath catches, shaky, and his thumb makes emphatic encouraging circles right next to Sam's ear. Sam hums, opens up and lets his tongue guide the way down Dean's shaft. Dean tastes vaguely medicinal, residue of the harsh orange antibacterial soap that permeates them both, and illness. Sam pulls back and goes again, salivating freely and thickly to wash it away, so that there will be no taste on Dean that isn't him or Dean himself. Sam's hand creeps lightly over Dean's thigh—no, it's definitely thinner, and he can feel where Dean's lost some muscle mass—and he cups Dean's balls gently, hefting them in his fingers. Dean squirms a little and there's a soft sigh of linens and the squeaky plastic mattress as his head falls back onto the pillows. "Sammy…"

Sam hums again, deep in his throat, the closest he can get to the reassurance he wants to give. Dean's so warm in his mouth, in his hands. Sam can close his eyes and hear Dean breathe, fast and shallow, gulping with the pleasure of what Sam's doing to him. Sam drags his fingers from Dean's cock and slips his damp hand under the waistband of his sweatpants to palm his own cock, sensitive and already wet at the tip.

Now it's his turn to moan—though a hell of a lot quieter than Dean did—and Dean says softly, "Oh God, yeah, Sam. C'mon baby, you and me."

And the thing is, it's good, right? It's really good—his hand, wet with his and Dean's juices, and Dean in his mouth, down his throat and writhing gently—but all Sam can think is _so close so fucking close almost lost you and you can't you can't leave me and dying counts_ and he's still _hard_ , so goddamn hard for Dean and this and the fact that they both pulled it out of their asses one more time, even if Dean damn near lost his leg doing it. And then it all turns into _I love you I love you_ , fast as the beat of his heart and Sam's reaching up and touching Dean's face, rough with stubble and wet with something that could be tears except that Dean never cries, not even when he's hurt, not even when he's half dead ( _don't think that never think that not dead never dead can't die not him god_ ) and Dean's gasping Sam's name and lipping Sam's fingers and coming down Sam's throat and almost choking him but he can do this he can take it all because it's Dean and it's Dean's and he can't bear to let even a little bit of Dean get away from him right now and then his whole body is closing in and tightening up and it's good, it's really good, you know and he's coming and crying and Dean's stroking his head and his neck and he missed this he really missed this and now he has it again and really, thank God, thank God, thank God.

Sam comes up off the chair (ignoring the twinge and pain), his one set of fingers still clasped around Dean's spent and soft, wet cock and pushes his come-wet fingers of the other hand between Dean's parted lips, following them with his tongue so that his taste and Dean's taste are all tangled up between them, and that's him and Dean too. Tangled up, tangled together.

"Baby," Dean says, gentle as he's ever said anything. His hand tangles in Sam's hair, which is again uncut and Sam's just waiting for the jokes, and his thumb is brushing across the mole near Sam's nose and he's smiling a little, exhausted and crushed looking again but happy. "Sam. I'm okay. I'm fine. I'm…"

"…always fine," Sam echoes with him and smiles. "Yeah, Dean. I know."


End file.
